Ronan had been a single dad for three years, long enough to know two things. One, glitter was the most invasive substance known to man. Two, no matter how tired he was, Ellie was the best part of his life.

He was thirty four, she was five, and his world was arranged entirely around her.

The divorce had been messy. Not the dramatic, movie kind, but the slow, exhausting unraveling of something that had been broken for a long time.

His ex wife’s temper and her refusal to quit the pills had turned small arguments into disasters. When custody was decided, the court had taken one look at his steady job, his clean record, and the fact that he was not living in a haze of bad decisions, and handed Ellie to him.

He had not fought for her out of spite. He had fought because she was his joy. His sun, his moon, and everything in between.

This morning had been all about her dance recital. Ronan had spent an entire hour hunched over on a pink plastic stool that looked like it belonged in a dollhouse, carefully working her hair into a bun.

Bobby pins clinked in a coffee mug beside him, and every time he thought he was finished, another section rebelled.

Ellie sat still only because she was eating a banana and watching cartoons.

When he finally finished and she turned to the mirror, her grin was so big it made the struggle worth it. “Perfect,” she said.

He dropped her off at the community center early, because Miss Brenda, the instructor who had the patience of a saint, wanted the girls to have enough time to practice the routine a few times beforehand.

Ellie marched inside in her glitter covered tutu like she was heading to headline a sold out show.

He promised he would be back before curtain, and she gave him a little wave like a queen sending her knight on a quest.

With an hour to spare, he decided to get her flowers. Not grocery store carnations, but real flowers. The kind that would make her feel special when she came running off the stage.

The nearest shop was ten minutes away, tucked along a narrow street lined with old brick buildings and hand painted signs.

He parallel parked in front of the shop with such precision he wished someone had been there to witness it.

That was when he saw her.

A woman, maybe twenty eight, crouched on the sidewalk outside the shop. She was setting a ceramic bowl down, sleeves slipping over her hands, hair in a loose braid.

From under a bench, a scruffy brown dog crept out, tail wagging low. She smiled at it with a kind of warmth that felt almost personal. “Hello gorgeous,” she said softly, like she was speaking to an old friend.

The dog sat, then lowered its head to the bowl and began to eat what was in the bowl. She straightened, then disappeared into the shop, the door slowly closing behind her.

Ronan stayed there for a second, looking at the dog, then at the door, then back at the dog. Its tail thumped lazily against the sidewalk as it crunched away.

He smiled without meaning to, shut his car door, and headed for the shop.

The bell over the door gave a soft, almost shy ding when he stepped inside. Warm air wrapped around him, scented with roses, lilies, and something faintly green and sharp like fresh stems.

The place was colorful but not in a loud way. Buckets of blooms lined the walls, vases crowded the counters, and strings of tiny white lights wound around the shelves.

She was behind the counter, leaning over a glass case, scissors in hand as she trimmed a stem. Her focus was steady, but there was something about the curve of her mouth that made the whole place feel lighter.

She glanced up when she noticed him. “Hi,” she said in that same warm tone she had used for the dog.

“Hello,” he replied, aiming for casual, though his voice came out rougher than he wanted. He drifted toward a display of tulips and daisies, pretending this was the most important floral decision in the history of mankind.

Through the window, he saw the dog still eating. Ronan kept smiling. At the dog. And at the thought of the woman who had put the bowl there.